Night of Power Page 6

  “Come soon, Mummy,” Ashif says. He knows she’s fasting, but he wants her to join them anyway, instead of serving them like she’s the hired help.

  “Take more, bheta.” Layla holds a spoonful of biryani over Ashif’s plate.

  “No, Mummy.” Ashif bars his plate with his hands. “I already have so much.”

  “Eh-hey, don’t force him,” Mansoor says to her. “He’s not a child.”

  “Okay. A little more.” Ashif lays his hand back on his lap. He’s told her so many times that he doesn’t eat fried foods. She should bake the cassava or substitute olive oil for the ghee. It’s much healthier. But he doesn’t want to make a fuss and he knows it will only offend her.

  Layla piles a scoopful of chicken biryani onto his plate. “Eat, bheta. Before it gets cold,” she says joyfully. She throws another potato-champ and three more pieces of cassava onto his plate.

  “Everything’s delicious, Mummy.” Ashif rakes his fork over the rice. “As usual.”

  The bouquet of roses sits on the deep freezer. The heart-shaped balloon sways from side to side like a hand waving to get someone’s attention.

  “Then I am happy.” She pulls her son’s head to her with the base of her palm and kisses him.

  Her hands feel rough against Ashif’s skin. Her skin is dry and cracked, her fingernails chewed to the base. He’s even more pleased about the spa certificate he’d chosen for her. She’ll be able to relax and enjoy herself, for a day, at least. “Me, too, Mummy. I’m happy.”

  Layla kisses him again. Watching Ashif eat gives her a deep sense of satisfaction.

  Mansoor taps the jug of empty water. “Can you bring ice?” He removes a neatly folded embossed handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabs his forehead and chin.

  Layla picks up the jug and disappears back into the kitchen.

  “Do you need a backup plan at the company?” Mansoor asks. “Just in case?”

  “No, of course not,” Ashif says, irritated by the question. “My job is safe.”

  “Never a good idea to be so confident.” Mansoor taps his hand on his plate, but several grains of rice stick stubbornly to his fingers. “You always need a plan B.” Mansoor notices his son’s clothing. Is he or isn’t he going to an important business meeting? No tie, no jacket? A pair of sunglasses on his head? Sure, Mansoor knows about casual Fridays. A perk of the job, one of his customers explained. But it wasn’t Friday today. Besides, what kind of perk is that, anyway? Don’t they know slack dress can only lead to slack work habits? And then how do you tell the difference between a businessman and those who work in the lower classes? His son looks like he is on vacation. What kind of impression is he going to make with his superiors?

  “I’m on solid ground, trust me,” Ashif says.

  “You never know when the wolf will be at your door.” Mansoor snaps the tip off a green chili with his front teeth. “What will you do when they lay you off?”

  Ashif laughs. Lay him off? He wishes. Yet he’s also offended by his father’s assumption. In one quick rush, like a tightly shut valve suddenly opened, he tells his father about the executive track and all the perks that come with it: the salary, the benefits, the stock options. He tells him about Rick’s words of confidence, too: One day, he might be running the company. He feels an immediate sense of relief and regret.

  Mansoor looks up from his plate, his eyebrows raised. “Executive track?”

  Ashif watches his father’s surprise turn to pride, and for a moment, he feels the warmth of his gaze spreading through him.

  “Why didn’t you say anything earlier? By God, that’s great news!” Mansoor slaps the table with both hands. He pushes his chair back and shoots up to standing. “Well done, my boy! I always knew you were destined for great things. We’ve got the next Steve Jobs sitting here!”

  “I’m not on the executive track. Not yet….” Why did he say it? His father is now like a runaway train. He has the urge to jump in front and force it to a screeching halt. Or just lie down on the tracks. Ashif knows better. Why can’t he control himself?

  “Layla!” Mansoor calls, grabbing a bottle of Johnny Walker from the lower cabinet of the dining hutch. The bottle is tucked behind a stack of platters and casserole dishes. Layla insists that he keep his spirits out of sight. She does not want to offend her friends or her customers, all of whom are Ismaili. “Bring ice.” He pinches two tumblers out of the upper cabinet. “Layla! Are you listening?” He returns to his chair holding the bottle of whisky by the neck. “An executive, huh? Excellent news, son, most excellent.”

  Layla returns to the dining room with the jug of ice water.

  “Not for the water.” Mansoor twists open the bronze cap.

  Layla frowns. “Oh-ho, that at this hour?” She puts the jug down on the table.

  “I don’t want any,” Ashif says, though he would love a drink right now. But he wants to respect his mother’s wishes.

  Layla fishes ice cubes out of the jug of water and dumps them into a bowl with a fork.

  “Don’t be shy, son.” Mansoor pours several fingers of whisky in each glass. He is thrilled that the boy is pretending he doesn’t want any. It is just his way of showing his father some respect. It is not normal, after all, for a child to drink with his parents. A toast first and then he will whisk his son away to his office and show him his business-plan presentation. Make him sign the loan papers. Mansoor grabs a few ice cubes from the bowl and plunges them into the whisky. “Come on, son. We need to celebrate.”

  “What is the good news?” Layla asks.

  “Our son is on his way up,” Mansoor says, his eyes lit up, his voice quivering slightly. All his years of fathering had not been wasted. His boy was going to be somebody! “He’s getting a promotion.”

  Layla claps her hands. “Of course he is.” Layla wraps her hands around Ashif’s face and kisses him on both cheeks. “Mumbarki, bheta.”

  Ashif turns his fork upside down on his plate. “It’s not a promotion, Mummy. Not yet. Maybe in the future.”

  “You mean you don’t have it on paper?” Mansoor hesitates as he hands Ashif a glass. “You should always get things on paper.”

  Ashif takes the whisky and sets it on the table at a distance in front of him. “It’s not a sure thing, Pappa. That’s what I am trying to tell you.”

  Mansoor extends his glass to Ashif in a toast. “He’s being too modest. Bottoms up, executive sir.”

  Ashif raises his glass slowly. When they clink, another valve opens, and before he knows it, he’s telling his father he doesn’t want to be on the executive track. He’s not cut out for this job.

  Mansoor laughs. “That makes no sense. Who doesn’t want a promotion?” Is his son lying? Maybe there’s no promotion at all. He’s getting laid off but he’s too embarrassed to say. He doesn’t know whether to finish his whisky or not.

  “There are just a lot of qualified people who want to get on that track,” Ashif says in an effort to turn the conversation.

  Mansoor wags a finger at Ashif playfully. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of a little competition? Come on, have some confidence, will you?” He double punches the air. “You can knock your opponent to the ground.” He looks at Layla. “What do you think, Layla? Who’s going to win? Our son or some fool idiot?”

  “Our son, who else?” Layla says proudly. She pulls out a chair and sits down next to her husband.

  “See, son! Your mother and I have the utmost confidence in you. We are here by your side.”

  “But it’s not a done deal, Pappa,” Ashif says, trying to gnaw his way out of this trap.

  “Come, son. Let’s make a list.” Mansoor pulls out the pen angled between the buttons of his shirt. “Let’s be clear-headed about this. We’ll mark down your competitors’ strengths and weaknesses. Mark down yours, too. Then figure out a way to beat them.”

  “Look, Pappa. I’ll try my best,” Ashif says to appease him. “It’s not as if I don’t have a good job already.” He checks his wristwatch under the table then takes a gulp of whisky.

  “Oh-ho, who said you don’t have a good job?” Mansoor says, half-laughing.

  “Yes, such a good job. Top-notch, isn’t it?” Layla adds.

  “Aye, Layla. No one asked you.” Mansoor clucks his tongue. “We are talking business here. Can’t I speak to my son in peace for once?”

  Ashif leans forward in his seat, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. He is about to tell his father not to speak to his mother like that when Layla widens her eyes and shakes her head ever so slightly at him, as if to say, Don’t make it worse, son. We’ll talk when we are alone. Ashif sits back in his chair and reaches for his whisky again.

  Mansoor takes another sip, too. “Look, son, I know you have a good job. No one is saying otherwise. But how difficult is it to make it to middle management? Don’t be so easily satisfied, son. Every Tom, Dick, and Raja is working at these big corporations nowadays. Good for them. Good for you. But there’s a reason they call it middle management. It’s far from the top. Believe you me, son, the consequence of mediocrity is death.”

  “But I’m happy with my job.” Ashif feels as though he’s pushing against a boulder, one that will soon give way and flatten him.

  Mansoor swirls his empty glass absently. His son has so much potential and the gumption, yet his drive seems to wax and wane like a penny stock. He’s seen this behaviour before. Just when Ashif is winning a race, he wants to slow down and rest. Makes no sense. He needs to push him harder.

  “Do you know that the average CEO makes one hundred and four times—that’s right, one hundred and four times—more than the average worker? Read that in Fortune 500. The benefits of being on top are endless. First and foremost: everyone knows your name. That’s when you have real power.”

  “I make enough money.” Ashif drops his arm under the table to steal another glance at his watch. Don’t say anything more and prolong the torture. I’ll be out of here soon.

  Mansoor keeps a smile on his face but the vein in his forehead is throbbing. Look at the smug look on Ashif’s face. Bragging to him about his salary. Who does he think he is? If Mansoor had said such a thing, his father would have given him a thrashing. When his father entered the room, the children stood up in unison, as if they were greeting an army officer, welcoming a king. They never made direct eye contact with him, not only when they were young, but well into adulthood, even after they were married and had their own children. They were still his children. It was his right to demand their respect and they gave it to him unconditionally. No talking back. No disagreeing with him. No questioning him. It was a form of insolence and met with force. Meanwhile, Mansoor has never even laid a hand on Ashif. Even when he deserved it! He decided long ago to veer away from his father’s brand of parenting. He wanted to be a modern father. He would never strong-arm his son. Instead, he would discuss things with him. Rationally and coolly. But who would stand for this level of disrespect? Still it won’t do to lose his temper. He breathes in deeply and calms himself. He needs to win his boy over.

  “Look, son, all I am saying is, why settle? Take the example of world-class athletes. You think Gretzky got to the top by sitting on his laurels? How about Tiger Woods? Even the women these days are making the A-lists. Look at Serena and Venus Williams. Just put your mind to it, and before you know it, you too will be rocketing to the top. Business is in our blood.”

  “Yes, Pappa. You’re right, Pappa,” Ashif says. He’s knocked out. As if he’d been in a boxing match. There’s only one way to deal with his father: keep your mouth shut.

  “Excellent, son,” Mansoor says. He knew a sports analogy would work. A knockout punch! Sports and business are, after all, the universal language of men. “That’s all I wanted to hear, son. Just give it your all. You can do it.” Mansoor wants to add that if it wasn’t for the sheer determination and drive of those young athletes’ fathers, it’s doubtful they would have amounted to anything. Look at Walter Gretzky, Earl Woods, Richard Williams. They were the ones who set the course for their children, pushed them to their maximum potential.

  He’s gearing up for round two when the limousine driver taps on his horn, just as Ashif had asked him.

  “I have to go,” Ashif says, standing up from the table.

  “Already?” Layla asks.

  Mansoor stands, too. “But I still have some items to discuss with you, son.” He picks up his business plan and loan papers from his seat.

  “You haven’t even seen Shamma and Almas Masi, either,” Layla says.

  “Sorry, my meetings start soon,” Ashif says, slipping on his jacket. “I can’t be late.”

  “Of course! Go, son. He doesn’t have time to waste on those old ladies, Layla. Isn’t that right, son? You have big business to tend to.”

  Layla follows Ashif to the front door with a bulging plastic bag. As he puts his shoes on, she pulls a wrinkled set of forms out from the bag and hands them to him. “I found these behind your father’s desk when I was cleaning.”

  “What is it?” he asks, examining the papers, but it doesn’t take long for him to figure it out. Commercial bank loan forms with his father’s name, the house as collateral, and a large sum of money written under “Funds Requested.” He scrunches up the forms and pitches them at the wall, clipping the mirror. It swings dangerously. “Not again!” he says, clenching his jaw.

  “Please, bheta. Keep your voice down.” She nervously looks over her shoulder. “Your father will hear.” She scoops up the forms and stuffs them into her apron pocket.

  “He’s in debt again?” he asks in a harsh whisper. “Unbelievable!”

  She shrugs. “You know him. He doesn’t tell anyone anything. Least of all me. But what else can it be?”

  Ashif pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand. He wants to march into his father’s office and straighten that man out. Once and for all. But he knows he can’t. He needs to control himself for his mother’s sake. An argument with him will only make things hard for her after he leaves, and that’s the last thing he wants.

  “Now I understand why he’s been working so hard,” she says. “I wake up to go to morning prayers, and there he is, at his desk in a suit, working already. Sometimes he is even talking to himself. I come home from jamatkhana in the evening, same story. Working, working, working. All the time. And at his age? No wonder his mind is kachumber. All jumbled up these days. And if I tell him he needs to rest, take it easy, he only eats my head. I don’t know what to do, bheta. The business is going to be the death of him.” Her voice is trembling, her eyes moist.

  The ground beneath Ashif turns to quicksand. The same sinking feeling. He feels he can’t breathe. He takes his mother into his arms. “Please, Mummy. Don’t cry.”

  “We need to help him, son. Please. Once he solves his business problems, he will be okay.”

  He knows by we she means you and he also knows what he needs to do. His stomach clenches into knots. “Don’t worry, Mummy. I’m going to take care of everything.”

  She reaches up and kisses him. “Thank you, bheta.”

  At his desk, Mansoor can hear Ashif and Layla though he can’t make out their words. They’re at it again! He slaps his pen to the table. Whispering to each other like schoolgirls. Even when Ashif was a teenager, if Mansoor happened to walk in on them chatting, they would stop, change the topic. Was this any way to treat a father? Why is Layla gossiping with him, anyway? Telling him her secrets, maybe even complaining about him? A boy does not want to know about these things—things meant for a woman. A daughter, not a son. Is it any wonder his son has turned out so soft? A sissy boy who can’t even keep his job. That’s his mother’s fault! He should never have trusted her to take care of him on her own. But what choice did he have? He had to move to Rocky Mountain House. He only did what countless men before him did. His father, too. Not to mention war heroes. Men who leave their families temporarily because they have to. After all, taking care of business is taking care of family and that is every man’s greatest honour and responsibility.

  Mansoor pushes his chair back from his desk. “What’s going on in there?” he calls out.

  There’s a moment of silence then Layla answers. “Nothing, nothing. Just saying goodbye.”

  “Let him go, will you, Layla? You’re going to make him late for work.”

  “I’m going, Pappa,” Ashif interjects. He balls his hands into fists and jams them into his pockets. “Just saying goodbye.”

  “Okay,” Mansoor replies, still irritated. Ten hours just to say goodbye? No matter how much he’s done for his son, he only has eyes for his mother. He is her chumcho! Ever ready to do anything she wants. Meanwhile, he constantly pushes back against his father, as he did at lunch. What has he done to deserve his son’s contempt? It’s a question that plagues him daily, like a mosquito buzzing at his ear that he can’t swat away. He can’t think of a thing. On the contrary, he has fulfilled his every duty to his son, no matter what the circumstance, and this—this—is how he chooses to treat him? His face flushes hot with anger. He grabs the loan forms and tears them to pieces. He’ll find another way to secure the money.

  “Don’t forget this, bheta,” Layla says, handing Ashif the plastic bag filled with containers of food, plastic cutlery, and serviettes. “In case you get hungry at the hotel.”

  He’s about to explain that he can order room service, but a wave of exhaustion spreads through him. It won’t make a difference. He takes the bag from her and thanks her.

  His father arrives just as he is about to leave. “Better go, son. Otherwise you will give your superiors a bad impression.”

  “Come back soon,” Layla says and starts crying. “Or tomorrow for Lailatul Qadr.”

  “Or better yet, why don’t you come back for the weekend after your meetings in Vancouver?” Mansoor asks.

  “Yes! Please come back.” Layla gives him another hug.

  “It will make us very happy, son,” Mansoor adds. “I can pay for any change fees for your flight, too.”

  “I can’t, Pappa. I’m sorry,” he says, irritated by the offer. As usual, his father has no concept of money. He extends his hand to his father, relieved to finally be at the end of his visit.